


Day 18: Soft Vore

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [18]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: F/M, Macro/Micro, Soft Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27366103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Continued from day seventeen; Morfessa continues playing with a tiny Luard. (Safe vore, no digestion.)
Relationships: Morfessa/Luard
Series: Kinktober 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	Day 18: Soft Vore

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyyyyy yeah it's the prompt everyone expected from me (shoutout to the anon who implicitly suggested this on the last fic; you called it). This IS a sequel to the previous prompt, but if you didn't read that one you didn't miss much besides the fact that Luard is currently approx. four inches tall, because, you know, these things happen sometimes.
> 
> Anyway as the summary says, safe soft vore, no digestion, no full tour (to be clear I am not into that one and I will never write it, sorry). It's implied he'll get puked up later but you can imagine whatever end you prefer I guess.

Luard is still floppy and exhausted, floating limply on the rich afterglow of orgasm, when Morfessa scoops his tiny body up again.

“There’s no scientific inquiry going on here, you understand,” she says, her self-satisfied smirk and glimmering eyes framed by thick golden curls. “Sometimes, I just like to do things for my own pleasure.”

Sparks of blue-white light float almost lazily down her arm, skittering over leather-clad fingers. Luard doesn’t bother with any pointlessly scathing responses about _her pleasure_ , or what it generally consists of, or how this might be the first time ever that she hasn’t bothered to make an excuse for it; his eyes are on the sparks as they hone in on him, moving as if guided by lasers, and his arms are pinned uselessly to his sides again between slowly-tightening fingers, left with barely enough room to squirm as the light drifts over his skin. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t even itch — in fact, it barely tickles as it sinks into him, melting into his skin like ice cream on a hot day.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, his voice as tight and shallow as his breath.

“Oh, please.” She draws a sign in the air with her free hand and snaps her fingers. Light flares from Luard’s skin, a firecracker on a moonlit night, and then fades to nothing as quickly as it appeared. “I _know_ you recognize a simple protection charm when you see one.”

She’s just being patronizing, of course, Luard thinks, because she _knows_ he’s more than a little bit preoccupied, what with being suddenly tiny, and just as suddenly trapped in the clutches — literally — of the most dangerous and alluring person he can think of, and also _that whole thing where you shoved me down the front of your robe and then jerked me off with a single finger because hey, that just happened, did we forget about that already?_

Instead of all that, he says, huffily: “Of course I do. I’m asking what it’s for.”

“Protection,” she says. “Obviously. You’ll need it where you’re going, and I am _not_ — despite being provided with _years_ worth of justifications — actually looking to kill you.”

“Gee. Thanks.” Light flickers dimly under Luard’s skin, as if someone were shining a torch through it. He doesn’t feel _stronger_ , but it’s like the edges of his form have a little extra _realness_ to them somehow, a solidity that won’t be easily broken. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘ _where I’m going_ ’?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll let you out after a while — same way you went in. No mess.”

“That doesn’t expl—” Luard starts, but the air whistles wordlessly from his throat as Morfessa’s lips stretch into a broad, dangerous smile, her eyes narrowed with the intensity of a stalking predator. Her lips part, just a fraction, and he notices for the first time that they’re tinted with a glittering blue gloss, perfectly applied, a halo that stretches to fill his vision as she opens her mouth further.

As she lifts him up to meet them, he finally realizes, as if gradually waking up from a dream, what she’s about to do.

“H-hey—” is all he manages before Morfessa uncurls her fingers, flattens her palm over her open mouth, and tips him inside.

Her lips close instantly behind him, and for the second time in the same day, Luard is promptly plunged into darkness. The damp tightness of her mouth presses in from every angle, and his arms reflexively shoot out and scrabble for purchase, for safety, only to find smooth, impenetrable walls of teeth on either side. There’s little time to assess the situation; his entire world tilts as she, apparently, tips her head back, and the ground beneath him — her _tongue_ — shifts, rises like a great serpent, and flattens him against the roof of her mouth. The _slap_ of his back against her palate drives the wind from him, and he spasms in a fit of rough, wet coughs as her tongue pushes his body back, down, towards the deepest, darkest part of her mouth.

Slick, hungry heat envelopes him, and Luard’s nerves tighten and scream in the way that his throat refuses. The walls of Morfessa’s own throat contract around him, and his fingers find no purchase in the soft flesh as it drags him in, flattens his arms to his sides once more and pins his legs together as if he’d slipped headfirst into an especially tight sleeping bag — one filled with Morfessa’s saliva and pulsating around him with the beat of her heart. There’s no more room to move, and — he realizes with rapidly-growing urgency — no room to breathe.

Luard gasps, dizzily, desperately, and his skin tingles with magic; despite everything, his lungs contract and expand, and the relief of a desperately-needed breath floods his system. It’s _her_ , he realizes, distantly, through the thick haze of her body heat. This is her idea of _protection_. 

If only she’d slow down for a second, Luard might actually have a chance to decide exactly how he feels about that.

Of course, because she apparently thrives on keeping him off-balance, the shifting, spasming walls of her throat refuse him any sort of self-reflection, and Luard is swept helplessly downwards in a flood of saliva as she swallows, _hard_. It’s like a wave rippling through her muscles, breaking over his body and dragging him further and further into her depths, her fleshy walls undulating around him in a firm but comforting massage, even in the midst of this — his instinct is to call it _torture_ , wanton mistreatment of an innocent wizard, a perversion of science, or any other number of half-hearted objections.

Something hard presses against him through the flesh, and it can only be her fingers, working at her throat from outside, guiding him on his slow, sticky way down. _That_ , more than anything, is a bizarre and unexpected comfort. It’s a connection, a link to the outside, and to the _her_ that he knows, an assurance that she’s following his progress. It stirs a gentle warmth in him, mingling with the heavy blanket of her own body heat, and he spills into her stomach wrapped in a paradoxically embarrassed yet satisfying sense of being _seen_.

The inside of her stomach barely affords him any more space to move around, the weight of her hand following him to press against her belly from outside. The small cavern, dimly lit by the faint, pulsing glow of his skin, is dripping with a dark, grimy fluid, trickling down the walls and already beginning to pool around him. _Acid_ , his brain supplies, as his skin begins to tingle, but the tiny well of panic forming in his gut is quickly burned away by the pale light that shrouds him in response. _He’s safe_ , it says, _as long as he’s with her_.

The irony of being probably the only person on Cray who can say they’ve been _inside Lady Morfessa_ doesn’t escape him, even if most other coherent thought does.

The pressure of Morfessa’s hand on her belly shifts, moving in slow, lazy circles, squashing Luard gently against her stomach lining. Despite the ineffectiveness of the acid, it feels like his entire body is melting away, nerves stretched and massaged and left to hang limp and relaxed. His body lies swamped, flattened under the weight of her attention, and with his last shreds of stamina, he drags himself onto his side to nestle more comfortably into the shape of her stomach, because that's about all he _can_ do anymore.

Acid sizzles around him like a hot bath, and soft blue light plays over his skin, tempering its burn and smell alike into a steamy, sleepy haze. _I’ll let you out after a while_ , she’d said. Knowing her, it’ll be as long as she can possibly drag this out for — hopefully before she needs to actually eat. The pulse of her heart is even stronger here, backed by the distant roaring of blood and breath and her entire deadly, brilliant existence, and Luard is suddenly very, very tired.

Some part of him feels like he should still be annoyed at the whole thing, at the audacity with which she does these bizarre, pointless things to him, and the willingness with which he takes it, but the sounds and movements of her stomach are rocking him like gentle ocean waves, and more and more complicated thoughts start sliding clean off his brain, as slippery as the flesh beneath his exhausted fingers.

 _Same way you went in_. That means she's planning to— to—

It doesn’t matter. She said he’d be safe, and he is — because that _is_ what she said, just maybe not in so many words.

Really, sometimes, she isn’t any more upfront than he is about— about _all this_.

Slowly but surely, lucidity slips away, lost in the warm, overwhelming rhythms of her body — and then, all at once, Luard slips away too, guided by Morfessa’s hands into the arms of peaceful, dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So, October may be over, but I obviously still have a lot of work to do, so Rest Assured I am going to keep plugging away at these until they're all done. MAYBE at a slightly slower pace, who knows, I'm not promising anything. The fact that we got this far in the first place is a miracle.
> 
> Because of this, I'm skipping out on NaNo, but no one's missing anything there because it would have just been my original novel stuff I'm not sharing anyway.
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


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